


A Bard of Many Secrets

by AstralAlmighty



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Apologies, Assassins & Hitmen, BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Apologizes, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Being an Idiot, Jaskier | Dandelion Can Take Care of Himself, Jaskier | Dandelion Needs a Hug, Just some stiches and bandages, M/M, Medical Procedures, No beta we die like Jaskier doesn’t, RHATHM Allusions, Reunions, Serious Injuries, Set between the Moutain and the Fall, about damn time, blink and you miss it - Freeform, post 1.06
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:14:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28295889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AstralAlmighty/pseuds/AstralAlmighty
Summary: Inspired by a tumblr post by @darkverrmin:Geralt keeping an eye on Jaskier after the mountain, following him silently and making sure he's okay. Geralt finds himself fighting and killing a lot of men and mercenaries who try to hurt Jaskier.Jaskier has no clue.After a few months of this, Geralt realizes in horror that it wasn't he who was endangering Jaskier, while they were traveling together. It was the bloody fucking opposite. The cheerful, bubbly bard had more enemies than all of the kings Geralt ever knew, combined.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 58
Kudos: 229





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here is the original post: https://darkverrmin.tumblr.com/post/638144971821744128/geralt-keeping-an-eye-on-jaskier-after-the
> 
> I was inspired, and well... this happened. CW for some blood and fainting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning, this first chapter is the original addition I added to @darkverrmin ‘s post, so it’s rather short in comparison to the rest of the chapters.

Geralt’s feet pounded up the stairs; his breath short and ragged. The stairs swam in his vision, but he pressed forward. He tripped, falling to his knees, and gasped in pain.

Shuddering, Geralt tightened his grip on the wound. The gash was clotting, but there had been venom on the blade, and Geralt didn’t know how long he’d last. Regardless, he stumbled to his feet and grabbed the banister, pulling himself up the stairs.

The assassins had been clever this time around. One had distracted him—tricked him into thinking she was alone—while the other slipped off. Had the first not spent too long taunting him in the trees, Geralt would’ve never realized there was a second person.

But now it was too late. He had spent too long chasing after the first woman, too long trying to ensure Jaskier’s safety; he had failed at the one goal he had promised to complete. 

But he had to see, he had to see what awaited him. It didn’t matter if he knew the outcome, he had to see it.

Nearly falling off the top step, Geralt lurched towards the first door. Falling against the rough wood, he inhaled, searching for Jaskier’s scent. 

A gentle pine, mixed with copper blood, filled his nostrils. Pushing away from the door, Geralt limped down the hall. 

The smell of blood grew stronger, strong enough to mask the pine soap Jaskier loved to use. Bracing himself against the wall, Geralt’s legs shook, threatening to give out. 

His stumbling would surely wake someone, alert whoever was in Jaskier’s room, but Geralt couldn’t find the desire to care.

Jaskier was dead; killed by an assassin in a quiet inn; sent by another one of his many enemies. The many enemies that Geralt had never noticed during their travels. 

How could he have been so stupid? They had faced numerous bandits and assassins—enough to raise eyebrows—but Geralt had always thought that he was their mission, not Jaskier. 

But now, after the dragon hunt, it was clear that Jaskier had been the target. 

It was odd how Geralt felt he had learned more about Jaskier in the past few weeks than the last 22 years. It was odd--and frustrating--but Geralt had stopped being shocked at Jaskier many, many years ago.

Enemies, friends, or lovers; Jaskier had them all. Even Geralt, for a time, before he had fucked up. 

Geralt didn’t want to leave Jaskier, couldn’t bear to watch him get hurt, but he didn’t know how to apologize. He didn’t know how to fix something that felt so broken; he didn’t know how to fix their relationship. 

So, he had promised himself to protect the man he loved, even if they would never meet face to face again. Jaskier would be safe, despite never knowing of his protector.

But now, it seemed that Geralt had failed, yet again, at protecting the things he loves. 

Pulling himself back to the present, Geralt nearly fell through the door where the blood smelled strongest. His hand shook where it clutched the doorknob, but he willed himself to calm.

Bracing himself for whatever he would see, Geralt threw open the door. He was fully prepared for Jaskier’s body, blood, perhaps even the assassin--although Geralt was in no state to kill them.

What he was not prepared for, though, was to see Jaskier standing over a body in a spreading pool of copper. He held a dagger in his right hand, and it glistened red in the moonlight.

Blue eyes shot up to meet his, and Jaskier’s body tensed, prepared to fight. He froze, though, once he saw his intruder.

Geralt stood, swaying in the door, trying to comprehend the sight before him.

Jaskier blinked. “Geralt?” He said incredulously, lowering the dagger. His eyes narrowed, waiting to see what Geralt would do next.

And Geralt fainted, that’s what he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like where this is going, so it’s gonna be continued.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier is closed-off and Geralt is hopeful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this was supposed to be about the length of the first chapter, but then it doubled... and then it tripled... and there wasn’t a great place to cut it in half... so I said, “Fuck it,” and here you go.

A gentle chirping filtered through Geralt’s ears. He felt heavy, as if someone had weighed him down with stones. “Perhaps someone has,” he thought idly to himself, lifting a hand to rub at his eyes.

Peeling his lids open, Geralt looked up to the ceiling. To his left, the gentle beginnings of the sunrise pushed through the curtains. They had been drawn back, and Geralt had a clear view of the forest.

The previous night’s occurrences rushed back like a flood. Panic washed over him, and on instinct, Geralt reached for his wound. His fingers met bandages, wrapped expertly around his middle. 

He pressed down, testing the injury, and found it was healing nicely. Someone had not only stitched him up, but had bandaged and been watching the injury. Geralt inhaled deeply, and smelled a salve of some sort. 

Geralt’s throat was in desperate need of water and his stomach gave a low rumble. A cup of water and a bowl was perched on the bedside table. He drank greedily; a few droplets dribbling down his chin.

Discarding the cup, Geralt turned his head, surveying the room he had stormed into the night before, and saw Jaskier. 

The man was slouched in a chair, his arms crossed, and his head lolling to one side. His chest rose and fell with each passing breath.

Geralt lay in silence, watching the man sleep. He allowed himself—for just this moment—to be selfish, and to enjoy the peace and beauty.

Jaskier’s hair had grown a bit, now covering part of his ears. A small scruff was growing too, although Geralt didn’t know how long it’d last. “It was shame,” Geralt thought, for Jaskier had always looked quite handsome with facial hair. 

He was a beautiful man—there was no denying that—and Geralt longed to reach out and brush Jaskier’s hair away from his eyes. He let out a small breath, enjoying the moment while he could.

The seconds passed, and Jaskier slept on. It was peaceful and quiet, like when they were together on the road. Geralt loved those mornings, when he woke first. He loved to relax for a few minutes, focusing on Jaskier’s heartbeat and his scent. He loved to gently shake Jaskier awake, see his grumpy morning self. 

Geralt reached out, to wake him like he used to, before remembering and pulling away. He didn’t deserve anything from Jaskier, not after hurting him. And if he tried to fix things, he’d fuck up again, he knew he would. He wouldn’t—couldn’t—lose Jaskier again.

Without waking the other man, Geralt slowly crawled out of the bed. A clean pair of trousers lay at the foot of the bed and were quickly put to use. If he could get dressed and pack up his things quietly enough, he could slip out before Jaskier awoke and make it to Roach within the hour. 

Regret gnawed at his heart. He wanted to talk to Jaskier, apologize, maybe even earn some forgiveness. He wanted to, but he couldn’t bear to risk it.

Pulling at his wound, Geralt flinched, sucking in a sharp breath. He reached out blindly, and grabbed the back of Jaskier’s chair, accidentally hitting the man’s shoulder. 

Jaskier’s breathing caught, and he blearily awoke, reaching to rub his eyes. Geralt froze, panicking in the early morning light.

Noticing the empty bed, Jaskier tensed and spun around, freezing when he made eye contact with Geralt, who was doubled over in pain, still hanging onto the chair. 

“Oh, for Melitele’s sake,” Jaskier muttered, as he lurched to his feet, seized Geralt’s arm, and dragged him back to the bed. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, reaching to stop him.

But Jaskier brushed his hand away and pushed Geralt to lay on the bed. He leaned over, inspecting the bandages. 

Peeling them back, Jaskier mumbled under his breath—something about one more coat of salve. He turned away, moving to a side table where bandages, slaves, and thread cluttered the small space. 

Geralt looked down at his injury and grimaced. It certainly was bad, but his mutations and medicine had fought off the worst of infection. It would scar, but he’d probably be dead had it not been for Jaskier.

A quiet voice came from the opposite side of the room. “I know you want to go,” Jaskier’s voice was stiff, “But let me handle this first, and then I’ll be out of your hair.” He was turned away from Geralt, hiding his face.

Guilt shot through Geralt, and he opened his mouth to speak. “I don’t want to go,” he said dumbly, unsure of how else to voice his feelings. 

Jaskier let out a low hum, returning to Geralt’s side. He spread a salve across the wound, not lifting his head to make eye contact. 

“I don’t.” Geralt pressed, trying to enunciate his point. He grabbed Jaskier’s wrist, stilling his gentle movements. Blue eyes flicked up to   
meet gold. 

“I don’t want to go.” Geralt’s eyes softened, searching for something, anything behind Jaskier’s blank face.

But he didn’t respond. Jaskier pulled away, returning to the wound. 

“Jaskier—“ Geralt began, but Jaskier shot him a look. He fell silent, allowing the man to finish his care. 

Several minutes of silence passed, as Jaskier cleaned and bandaged the injury.

When he was done, he returned to the table, packing up the supplies. 

“Knowing you, you should be up in a day or so.” He turned around, wiping his hands on a cloth. “Do you need anything?”

“Can we talk?” Geralt blurted. He began to push himself to a seated position, flinching in pain when he pulled the stitches. 

Jaskier crossed his arms and gave a small huff. Blowing his hair out of his eyes, he stared out the window, considering Geralt’s question. 

His face was drawn tight and unmoving, a sharp contrast to his usual passionate self. Geralt waited expectantly for some reaction.

After a moment, Jaskier spoke, “Let me eat something first; I’ve been awake for far too long.” 

Geralt furrowed his brow in confusion. “How long was I asleep?”

“Two days.” Jaskier chewed his lip, glancing over the bandages. “The infection was bad, but your fever broke last night.”

Jaskier’s words were short and clipped, lacking their flair and amusement. Geralt was reminded—yet again—of how badly he had hurt Jaskier.

“You took care of me?” He implored, and felt a wave of gratitude rise in his chest. Jaskier had no loyalty to him—no reason to have loyalty, at least—and yet, he cared for him. He could have easily dumped him at a healers door or left him in the capable hands of the innkeeper, but he took care of him. Took care of him quite a bit too, judging by the supplies and clothes spread about the room.

His armor was off in the corner, cleaned of any blood and gore. His clothes, swords, and bags were also clean, laying by the wall. The room was a mess, but a mess of bandages and blood soaked cloths. Healing salves and needles were still strewn about the side table, and a half-eaten plate of food was balanced somewhere in the chaos.

Jaskier gave a small nod, confirming Geralt’s question. He uncrossed his arms to chew his nails and averted his eyes to look back out the window. 

A pause.

“Roach?” Geralt asked, in some attempt at conversation.

“She’s here.” Jaskier confirmed, but offered no information as to how she had made it. 

He turned, reaching for the door. “I’ll be a few minutes, let me just... er, let me just, y’know...” He cast a final glance at Geralt, before shutting the door with a sharp click, leaving him alone in the room.

He could leave, gather his things and make it to Roach, but something stopped him. 

He had a chance, a chance to apologize and maybe, just maybe, fix things. He had hope, as risky as it was... he had hope. Geralt didn’t ignore it—as he might’ve once had—he didn’t ignore the fact that he had hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Am I little shit for ignoring the fact that Jaskier just killed someone?
> 
> Yes.
> 
> Am I going to stop being a little shit?
> 
> For all intents and purposes, yes. You will receive some acknowledgement of the first chapter next time.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Apologies are made and reactions are limited.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this with the intention to have Jaskier respond, and then I got 1.5K words in and said, “Fuck it.”
> 
> Apologies if this is shit, I’m tired but wanted to post before bed.

Further examination of the room revealed that the bowl next to him was filled with stew. It was quite cold, but Geralt couldn’t find himself to care. He scarfed it down, starving from two days of sleep.

Perched on the bed, Geralt cast another look around the room. Jaskier’s bags were still here, which meant he wouldn’t be leaving. Well, not yet, at least.

Geralt sighed, pressing his forehead into his hands. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to organize his thoughts and come up with an apology or an explanation or just... something. 

Soft sounds of the waking town filtered through Geralt’s ears. A woman’s laughter, a child grousing at the early start, knickers and whinnies from horses and sheep. Something that smelled faintly of eggs and bread wafted through the window, bringing with it the hope of more food. 

The stew had hardly been enough, but Geralt was satisfied for now. He could eat and take a bath later. He lifted his head, opening his eyes and looking to the wooden floor, where a dark stain peeked from beneath a rug. 

Geralt blinked. 

Fuck, how had he forgotten about... well, that? Jaskier had killed someone, unless Geralt remembered incorrectly. Which was entirely plausible, considering he had burst in knocked up on poison and potions. But if he didn’t imagine it... that meant that Jaskier had killed someone. 

That would be impossible... right?

Geralt flipped the rug over, dragging his hand across what was definitely blood. 

It was stained in a large patch, not splattered, and the faint smell of copper invaded Geralt’s senses. Someone—Jaskier—had cleaned it up, but left this mark in its wake, so he moved the rug to hide what he could. 

Geralt’s hand dragged back across the dry floor, curiosity and confusion threatening to overwhelm him. Jaskier had never done something like this—well, that’s a lie. That’s a very big lie. 

They’d been attacked by bandits a fair share of times, and Jaskier had shown his skill in swords and daggers. He had killed, but never in front of Geralt. 

Geralt had always been late to the party or looking the wrong way. He had witnessed Jaskier serving threats and starting bar fights, but never something so severe.

He had always assumed the bard gave people a hard hit to the head or a quick cut to the throat, nothing that would be so painful and bloody. Nothing that would be so violent.

Geralt’s head snapped up, having noticed soft footsteps. They were definitely Jaskier’s, and the door clicked, swinging open to reveal the man himself.

Geralt sat up, kicking the rug back over the stain. He flinched in pain, bringing a hand to his side. 

Jaskier clicked his tongue, displeased at Geralt’s carelessness. If he noticed the rug’s new position, he didn’t comment. Geralt stored that information away for later. 

Jaskier’s hair and face were wet, and he had changed into a new shirt. This one had laces at the collar, undone to reveal his throat and chest. 

Geralt swallowed thickly, averting his eyes to Jaskier’s, who was holding a new plate of food. His stomach growled at the implication.

Jaskier silently deposited the plate in Geralt’s lap. He turned to the table and began to pack up the mess of medical supplies. 

After a moment, he turned to Geralt—who had yet to touch the plate—and raised an eyebrow. 

“I know you’re hungry,” he said, “You’ve been asleep for two days and eaten nothing but that cold stew.” 

Without another word, he returned to the mess, and Geralt relented, picking up some bread and tearing into it hungrily. 

They ate and cleaned in silence for a while, not daring to break the peace. Geralt yearned for Jaskier to say something, hum, or even sing, like they had done on their travels. 

But as the seconds stretched on, Geralt knew that Jaskier would not be the one to reach over the divide. 

He put the plate aside, resting it upon the bed’s covers. Geralt cleared his throat, coughing slightly, and sat up a bit, searching for the words that would help begin the foundations of a bridge. 

“How have you been?” He mumbled, in some attempt to breach the divide.

Jaskier stilled for a moment. Then, he turned around, tucking the bag with his pack. He stood up, crossing his arms as if to guard his heart, and leaned against the now empty table.

He shrugged. “On and off.”

His face was tight and pinched, but his blue eyes were piercing. He stood tall and proud, but the tension in his arms betrayed him; he looked angry. 

Geralt hummed, before remembering this had to be a conversation, not a one-sided speech. 

“I’ve been alright.”

“I’m sure you have,” Jaskier said stiffly.

Geralt immediately regretted his response. “I mean, no,” he said quickly, holding up a hand for no good reason. “I haven’t... been alright.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, looking down into his lap. They always said he was a man of few but good words, but they all failed to realize those words lacked emotion. 

Emotion, all Witchers had it, but Geralt cracked under it. He became confused, unsure of himself, like now.

Looking back to Jaskier, he took a slow breath. “I haven’t been alright, not since the dragon hunt.”

Jaskier, who had been staring at his boots, looked up. He gave a heavy huff, shifting his shoulders. Moving one hand to his shoulder, he said, “I know break-ups can be hard.”

Geralt internally groaned. 

“Not about Yennefer,” he blurted. “We—she, er...” 

Jaskier tilted his head, imploring Geralt to go on.

“We talked... a few weeks after the hunt,” Gerald stammered, “We can’t break the djinn wish—no one but a djinn can. But we both know that whatever we had was because of the connection.

“We still... care about each other, but we don’t care for each other like that... not—not anymore.”

Geralt didn’t mention that Yennefer was the one to point out his apparently blatant feelings for the other man. Nor did he mention that she was the one to convince him to go after Jaskier. 

“Our lives will always be intertwined because of the wish, but we cannot change that, so we’ve accepted each other as allies—one might even say friends.” 

To his surprise, the words flowed easily out of his mouth, reminding Geralt that somehow, his and Yen’s relationship had not entirely burned to the ground. They were still friends. 

And even though he had apologized, he did not expect forgiveness; it would come when she saw fit. He certainly wanted them to be on good terms, but it did not hurt him to know she was resentful. Jaskier, on the other hand...

Blue eyes bored into his, testing the truth laid before them. After a minute, Jaskier nodded, looking away in deep thought. 

Geralt waited. 

Jaskier looked back, his brow furrowed. “Why did you never tell me about the wish?” 

Geralt paused, thinking. He had never mentioned the wishes. And when Jaskier asked, he said he saved her life, but did not mention the connection. 

He opened his mouth, testing the thick air.

“As you once told me... one is allowed to keep their secrets and have their privacy.”

Jaskier stared at him for a moment, before snorting in laughter. He broke into a grin, turning away to chuckle into his palm. 

A wave of contentment rose through Geralt. This was the first time he had seen Jaskier smile in a while, let alone be the cause of it.

Jaskier turned back, shaking hair out of his eyes. “I see your point, although a teensy mention wouldn’t have hurt.” 

“I know.” Geralt agreed. “I’m sorry.”

Jaskier nodded, sobering up and pressing his lips into a thin line. He looked away, face now devoid of mirth, and Geralt longed for the return of his smile.

Jaskier opened his mouth once, twice, and finally a third time. His brow furrowed, though if in rage or concentration, Geralt couldn’t tell.

“Are you really?” He questioned, bringing his hand up to his chin.

A pause.

Geralt pushed himself to standing. He crossed the room in a few steps, stopping within reaching distance.

“Yes,” he breathed, “I am sorry Jaskier. I’m sorry for—for everything.” 

Jaskier didn’t react, but he didn’t turn away.

“I’m sorry—I’m sorry for pushing you away, for treating you poorly... you never deserved any of it—“

“Damn right I didn’t.” 

It wasn’t meant to be funny—Jaskier eyes had only hardened their glare—but Geralt snorted, smiled softly, and continued on, “I was angry and upset, and you were an easy target... I wish—I wish...” 

The words were catching in his throat again, overwhelming and threatening to overflow. He closed his eyes and breathed deep, inhaling Jaskier’s scent, and brought himself back to here and now. 

He exhaled, opening his eyes to look into Jaskier’s. The other man raised his chin slightly, and while his face was stoic, Geralt swore he saw a glimmer of recognition.

“I wish I hadn’t yelled at you, or said those awful things... You’ve done nothing but bring good into my life, and I’ve never appreciated you for it.” 

He took another breath, looking down in shame.

“I don’t expect nor will I ask for forgiveness, but I am—truly and irrevocably—sorry for what I’ve done...”

Jaskier had yet to say anything, but his eyes were now shimmering in the morning light. Geralt paused, and he almost brought his hand up to touch Jaskier’s cheek, almost. 

Instead, he said, “If you’ll give me the chance, I’d like to prove myself a worthy travel companion.” 

He sucked in a wet breath, unable to continue any longer, and searched for something in Jaskier’s face. Blue eyes blinked back at him, fighting back tears.

Jaskier dropped his hand from his chin and looked away. His mouth was thin, his eyes were sharp and wet, and his hands clenched where his elbows crossed.

“Fuck Geralt,” he said thickly, “You can’t just say that and expect a man to have a reasonable response.” 

Geralt gave a small laugh, looking down at his feet and the wooden floor. 

He looked back up. Jaskier had yet to smile or even look at him. 

“Any response is reasonable,” Geralt spoke softly, “It’s your response.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For y’all out there following along, Jaskier will get to throw hands and words in his response.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Words and fists are thrown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do I know what I’m doing?
> 
> No.
> 
> There’s my excuse for sporadic updates and unedited writing. 
> 
> Will I apologize?
> 
> No, enjoy your hastily made chapter of Jaskier and his conflicting emotions.

The seconds stretched on, the silence only broken by soft chirps of morning birds. 

Geralt held Jaskier’s gaze, waiting—if impatiently—for a response. He wanted to hear something, anything at all. Anger, joy, forgiveness, just something. 

Blue eyes blinked furiously, still shining with unshed tears. He gave a sharp inhale and dropped his chin to his chest, screwing his eyes shut. 

Geralt lifted his hand, hesitating in the air, and rested it on Jaskier’s shoulder. 

Abruptly, Jaskier’s arm slapped his away. Pushing himself off the table, Jaskier spun around and planted his feet across from the Witcher. 

“You don’t get to say things like that,” he snapped, “You don’t—don’t understand, gods, you don’t understand what it’s like to know someone, to care for them, and for them to push you away, because apparently, all you’ve done is ruin their life.”

Running a hand through his hair, Jaskier took a shaky breath and continued. 

“Geralt, I spent my entire fucking life with you. Perhaps, for you, it was a blink of an eye across eternity, but for me it was everything.”

Geralt’s hands hovered in the air, unsure of what to do or where to go.

“I was there for good, for bad, for everything in between. I saved your life more times than I can count, and you saved my own just as often. We didn’t spend 22 fucking years hating each other, or—or spending it in some beneficial agreement for improving your image in exchange for protecting me. We didn’t fucking do that.”

Jaskier’s face was livid, his eyes darkened despite the morning dawn. Stepping back, he began to pace around the room, his hands gesticulating wildly. 

“The djinn, child surprise, those things weren’t my fucking fault. Was I involved? Yes. Did I make those decisions?”

He whirled around, pointing a finger at Geralt’s chest. 

“No,” he spat, “You made those decisions independent of my opinion. You didn’t listen to me when I specifically advised you to do the complete opposite.”

“Jaskier—“ 

“No, Geralt, no.” Jaskier dropped his arm, but Geralt was pinned by his glare. “The things I put up with you, the things I did for you, all for the fact that I care about you. Who are you to tell me I didn’t matter? That I acted out of selfish or cruel interests? That I fucked up your life? Who the fuck are you then?”

For a moment, the mask of anger dropped, replaced by resignation. 

Geralt swallowed and stepped forward. 

“I’m wrong,” he croaked. 

Jaskier stared at him, exasperation and anger mixed across his face, before dropping his head into his hand. A loud sniffle broke the morning silence. A sharp sting of guilt burrowed out from Geralt’s chest and settled in his core. 

Crossing the room in a few steps, Geralt reached out. Gently rested his hand on Jaskier’s shoulder, he felt his shoulders stiffen. 

“Jaskier—“ he began again, but was beaten to the punch. 

Literally. 

The door slammed shut, echoing in the dim light. Geralt stared up at the wooden beams, his jaw screaming in pain and his mind demanding to know where Jaskier had gone. 

He stumbled to his feet, massaging his bruised face, and flopped onto the bed. His side twinged sharply, and he rolled over to accommodate the stupid injury. 

He stayed like that, staring up the wood and collecting his thoughts, for several minutes. Then, a loud whiny drifted through the open window, and gentle murmurs of a manly voice accompanied it. 

Rolling over to the window, Geralt listened to Jaskier brush Roach. He could hear him singing, pausing to praise the girl more often than not, and a heavy blanket of nostalgia coiled with the guilt. 

He hadn’t Jaskier sing in so long. Too long. Geralt closed his eyes, allowing the alluring tugs of meditation to drag him under. 

He focused on Jaskier’s voice, humming a fisherman’s drinking song now, and allowed himself to have a moment of peace. Just for this moment. 

The chirping of birds, the bustle of the town, the chatter of a child; it all fell away. Jaskier crooned to the mare—and to Geralt, if he pretended—and the stress, the adrenaline, it melted away. 

They weren’t in some unnoticed town of Lyria, they were back in Cintra, before the child surprise, when a morning had started not so differently than this one. 

Geralt had earned a new scar across his shoulder from a nasty kikimora. It was infected, but not as badly, and Jaskier had taken it upon himself to care for Geralt when the local healer refused.

He had never thanked him for doing that; they had only known each other for two years.

But that wasn’t an excuse... it was simply the reason Geralt didn’t thank him. 

He should have. Especially after Jaskier had left to brush down Roach, like he was doing now. Geralt had managed to kick him out, feigning sleep to convince the man to get some of his own, but Jaskier had gone off to care for the horse, of course. 

He didn’t like Jaskier near Roach, at that time, but she liked him, for whatever reason. Liked him quite a lot, and that affection had never left. 

A soft chuckle interrupted Jaskier’s singing, and he chided the mare for her incessant nuzzling. Geralt pulled himself awake, listening for Jaskier’s mutters and Roach’s snuffles. 

“Gods, what has Geralt been doing to you?” Jaskier murmured, “He comes barging in after the assassin, faints, nearly dies, and then swoons at my feet... and you’re still here, like always.” 

Geralt shouldn’t be eavesdropping; Jaskier always had a tendency to confess to animals. Although, he should thank him for taking care of Roach again; she’s been through a lot the past few weeks.

“It’s not that I don’t forgive him... well... I don’t, not yet... but I don’t hate him. I don’t think I could if I tried. It’s just that—it’s just that I don’t hate him...” He trailed off, and silence followed for several minutes. 

“I think I could forgive him, if he earned it. If I gave him a chance,” Jaskier said at last.

Geralt really shouldn’t be listening to this. 

“Fuck, that’s my problem, girl. Because I’m going to give him a chance, because I want to and I’m going to and he doesn’t. Fucking. Deserve. It.” 

Geralt couldn’t agree more. 

Neither could Roach, apparently. She snorted, coaxing another laugh out of Jaskier, and with that, their one sided conversation ended. Jaskier sighed beneath the window, probably scratching Roach’s ears, but his footsteps eventually faded away.

If he listened hard enough, someone was walking up the stairs now. Geralt sat up, ran his hands through his hair, and waited patiently. 

He had a chance, didn’t he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Jaskier gives Geralt a chance...
> 
> Or will he?????

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
